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Warning: May contain anachronisms :p All stuffs copyright to Blizzard, obviously.

This is the very very first piece of writing I've ever published on the net, so apologies if you absolutely despise it :P If there's any spelling/grammar mistakes, it's totally my fault because I always check AFTER spellcheck, because we all know how effective that particular program is ¬¬ Please Read and Review, and hopefully enjoy :D

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Brek shifted his sword belt on his waist, for better draw speed. The caravan he was escorting through Stranglethorn Vale was expecting an attack, especially from non-Horde trolls, and they moved _fast_. The...not exactly feral, their society predated humans, but _wild_ trolls were notorious for arbitrary attacks on human targets. Despite the danger, the freelance guard, treasure hunter, spy and all-round mercenary Brek liked the Vale. When berserking psychopathic bloodthirsty trolls weren't flying screaming at you with an axe in a spirited attempt to remove your head and put it on their spears, it was actually quite peaceful, with the occasional small predator providing a nice release from the monotony of travel. The heady odours of the jungle overwhelmed all other smells, and ever since he'd come here on a cheap job making sure unruly sailors didn't disturb a worried goblin's cargo, he'd actually noticed himself making excuses not to leave. The only problem was, contrary to common sense, mercenary work was short in the Vale, particularly away from the coastal port Booty Bay. Luckily, that was exactly where this particular convoy was headed, to ship off and head for Ratchet in Kalimdor. Kalimdor. The Western Lands, the Uncharted Ways. That was the place where fortunes were made and destinies were forged nowadays, with Lordaeron reduced to a gigantic plague pit and the south-eastern continent of Azeroth a charred husk from the invasion of the orcs and, recently, the elementals. A couple of pockets on both continents remained civilised, such as Elwynn Forest up north and Stormwind, Brek's birthplace, and not forgetting the icy fortresses of Dun Morogh, but overall, the Eastern Lands were dead. That was why he was working for this pompous merchant for the sum of five gold pieces, and since the economic repercussions of the Three Wars, 5 gold was a month's fine living. This was what mercenaries lived for, easy jobs with a high pay-off and ticket out at the end. Marvellous. The grin that had slowly crept up the warrior's face as he thought began to fade away just as slowly, as his brain finally got a signal through as to what it was hearing. Nothing. Not a damned, troll-humping thing. All the background noise of the jungle had died out. The snarl of fighting prowlers, the throaty calls of the territorial raptors, and even the ever-present twittering of the birds had ceased to exist. There was only the faint rustling of the brush and the trees in the breeze. He slowly unsheathed his sword, careful to mask any metallic scrapes this action generally made. The fact that his scabbard was specially oiled to prevent such occurrences was irrelevant. Brek was always cautious. In the tortured world of Azeroth, not being cautious meant not being alive. He motioned to the small contingent of men around the caravan, all of them plainly dressed and at a discreet distance. A man who worked with fighters, soldiers, and various other variations on the word killer for 15 years learnt things, and he knew professionalism when he saw it. No doubt these were…_special _clerks, the ones who appeared at non-paying client's doors at midnight with their little bags, calmly entered despite any protests, and came out with fuller bags and a few hard-to-remove stains. The fact they were currently dressed as servants only served to heighten the menace, and Brek got the impression they followed his orders only due to _other_ orders. However, orders were orders, and they too silently readied their weapons.

As the driver leading the train noticed the weapons, he began to slow down, obviously intending to stop and see what the trouble was. Brek hissed at him to "_Move, damn you!_" The greatest threat in caravan raids was when the convoy stopped and was surrounded. If it kept moving, the guards could mount a running defence, which in some situations, such as for example…a jungle fight, was much easier and more effective than a running offence. The coachman took the hint, luckily, and spurred the horses into motion. Surprisingly, he did so quietly, as if recognizing the need for stealth, which was better thinking than most coachman managed in their lives. All the while, Brek's ears strained desperately for any sound out of the ordinary, in fact any sound at all. Soon, his nerves were veritably twanging with the suspense, and then, cliché of clichés, a twig snapped. But…it was odd. It was muffled, almost as if it had been broken by some large weight slithering across it…Brek's face blanched, usual calm demeanour discarded. You didn't get snakes that big in Stranglethorn and there was only one thing that had the anatomy and the ability to travel this far…

"_DRAGONSPAWN! ASSUME AND MAINTAIN AIRWATCH!"_ he screamed, all pretence of stealth forgotten. If the dragonkin were on the hunt, the group wouldn't escape by just being quiet. Dragonspawn were draconian centaurs that usually tended to and guarded their powerful masters. Occasionally however, as one or two were going about their daily tasks, something in their minds would click and they'd fly off, becoming semi-intelligent feral hunters which caused a great deal of trouble for anyone that got in their way. As Brek bellowed, carefully selected members of the…clerks pulled bows from their backs, lethal longbows with a 300-yard range at full tension disguised as peasant hunting bows. All the archers drew the bow and notched an arrow in one fluid motion, the final flourish angling the bow towards the nearest gap in the trees. If something came overhead it would be flying through a rain of what, to the dragonspawn, would seem like needles. But painful needles, perhaps enough to drive it away. Suddenly the brush around the dirt trail they were travelling along erupted into a frenzy of motion. Nothing was here yet, but something _was _coming. If it was a dragonspawn, Brek was ready. Though recently discovered, Brek had taken time to learn their weaknesses from the few men he'd met who bore the scars of victory, rather than the death rictus of defeat. Get under them, in the belly; the flight muscles in the chest were like steel. Avoid the front, the weapons they carry are big and nasty, and those claws will rip you apart like paper. Get around the back, circle; they don't turn well because the wings and four legs restrict their movement. This information and more sleeted through his brain as he fought the panic every professional felt when it seemed he might have met his match. The brush grew more and more excited. The men set themselves, ready for action. But it wasn't them that made the first move. And _that_ was what killed them.

Suddenly, one of the regular guards doubled over, blood bubbling from his gasping mouth. Brek hardly had time to register the 6-foot spear protruding from the other man's chest before he noticed another guard, one of the clerks this time, get an arrow to the face. He spun wildly with the force of the blow, until collapsing, limbs twitching as his nervous system slowly realised it was dead. Brek whirled, trying to block an attack which could come from any direction, and watched helplessly as his men were whittled down, another spear, another arrow, and some kind of strange…_fishlike_ projectile which burrowed into the guard's back, his face contorted in agony and strangled moans emanating from his writhing form. Eventually he lay still, but the…fish burst from his head and moved onwards, bloody teeth clacking. As soon as it had begun, it was over. Within the space of precisely 1 minute and 13 seconds, his 25-strong guard detail had been reduced to one, not including the coach driver, who had run screaming into the jungle the moment an attack was evident. Not a wise decision in that situation, a fact that was highlighted as his scream was cut short when he was out of sight, dissolving into a kind of burbling groan. No…make that two living. Brek found himself with his back to a man almost his own size, a rare thing. He risked a glance backwards and was shocked to see his oldest friend Geoffrey back to back with him. Geoff had served with him in the Third War, back when it had been A Noble Fight For Lordaeron, and they had been just getting into the game. That was before it had turned into the Biggest Bastard Of A Disaster For Humanity History Has Ever Known and they were forged into soldiers harder than thorium. He whispered,

"What in the Twisting Nether are you doing here!" Geoffrey turned, and a similar expression of surprise registered, then a grim smile.

"Just doing my job. I was your reserve, as our pompous friend over there…" He pointed to the remains of the merchant, who had jumped from his coach and almost immediately been hit in the stomach by the carnivorous fish creature, "…decided you might not be up to it. And I hate to say, I think he was right." Black humour. Last refuge of desperate men. Brek smiled tightly, and returned to his careful watch of the area.

"Well, we've been in worse than _this _before eh? Remember that Blackrock camp in…What in the name of all that is good and holy in the Light are _they_!" Their attackers had emerged from the trees, and it was a damn sight more than either was prepared for.

Brek's actually quite unusually analytical mind immediately began cataloguing details for future engagements._ That _thought certainly slapped him in the face. They were tall, 6 feet at the shortest and 8 at the tallest. Humanoid, but instead of two legs they had a huge reptilian tail, like the bastard child of a mermaid and a lizard. The tail seemed to be their main form of propulsion, as the creatures moved perfectly in synch with the tails and didn't move if the tails didn't. Their faces were another strange mix; half fish and half reptile, to create a certain eel-like effect that nevertheless had severe undertones of crocodile. Their skin…no…_scales_ were a kind of aqua blue, so close to the colour of open sea Brek's thoughts turned briefly to the boat he was missing, and would probably never see. On that note, Brek realised, they definitely looked amphibious, and they held tridents, long spears and nets as weapons, ocean weapons. The seemingly rarer slim green versions of the creatures held bows lightly, and moved more lithely than the blue, bulky ones. Brek guessed (correctly) they were probably females, and were probably dominant from the casual bearing they held. One notched an arrow and let it fly with practised skill. He flinched, felt a stinging pain on his cheek, and heard Geoffrey emit an "oomph" and slide down his back. That was it. He was _done_ if they'd taken Geoffrey. Screw the money, he was _dead_. For the first time in his life, Brek Narthen quavered. The largest of the band, an 8 foot male coloured a deeper green than the females and with an ornate, leathery crest dominating its head ("_probably some higher rank…"_ The remaining lucid parts of his brain volunteered) slithered up to him until its face was an inch from his. He gagged, the stench of seaweed and the deep ocean filling his nostrils. The creature opened its mouth, and began to speak. To tell the truth, Brek had been expecting this, as they had already shown signs of not only being intelligent, but possibly equal to humans. This confirmed it. Its voice, like the body, was an odd mix. A rich Darnassian accent, but low, hissing, almost guttural. The archaic nuances of the Night Elf tongue were somehow preserved in the snake-like utterings.

"I bring good news, sssurface dweller. You are gifted above all others. You have the pleasssure, nay the _honour_ of informing your masssters that the Children of Azshara have returned. Go now, sssurface dweller, and tell _all_ of the Naga's rebirth." With that, the ("_what was it…Naga?"_) creatures retrieved their weapons, one capturing the carnivorous projectile in a glass jar, and melted back into the undergrowth of the coastal jungle, leaving no trace of their presence. Well, bar the 26 corpses, the mess of gore spattered over a 50-foot area, a large amount of crushed bushes and an abandoned caravan consisting of 3 wagons, a middle-class carriage and a food supply cart. Oh, and one survivor. Brek stood still for fully ten minutes, sorted his mind out and settled the events into a coherent account. He dusted himself off, sheathed his sword, and ran like the demons were at his heels. Ran like _hell_.


End file.

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